


Small Choice in Rotten Apples

by rabbit_hearted



Category: Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic), Taming of the Shrew - Shakespeare
Genre: But here you go, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, I present thee: simp will agenda, Oh my god you guys, Victorian!AU, and slow burn, i am so excited about this, lots and lots of brooding, purple hyacinth as a period drama is something probably no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25700680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbit_hearted/pseuds/rabbit_hearted
Summary: In this retelling of Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew, palace art tutor Kieran White must gain the affections of the ill-tempered Lauren Sinclair if his best friend, Duke William Hawkes of L'Arlequin, hopes to win the heart of Lauren's sister Kym.Join the cast of Purple Hyacinth re-imagined in the context of a 19th-century period drama!
Relationships: Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White, William Hawkes/Kym Ladell
Comments: 63
Kudos: 80





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Special acknowledgement to MidgetGem87 for catching my reference to The Taming of the Shrew in my last fic and encouraging me to write this!

Oliver March is perched delicately on the precipice of insensibility when a man approaches him. Due to the aforementioned delicacy of his current posture, he does not register immediately that this man is speaking to him. 

“Did you hear me? I  _ said-  _ ” The man steps forward and, rather rudely, flits his hand across March’s periphery, “-that you look like a Lord.”

It is immediately clear to March that the man is heinously wealthy, not because of his modern fashions, which, March thinks, generally have the effect of making anyone look a bit like a peacock, but because of the hyper-awareness of his disposition and the space he occupies in a room. 

March spins the lip of his glass between his fingertips. “On the contrary,” he says slowly, “I am a mere tinkerer.” He takes a swig of his bourbon and leans back in his chair, regarding the newcomer speculatively. “What does a Lord look like?” 

“Like you,” the man replies. There’s something severe and restless in his disposition, as though he bears the weight of an important secret. He regards March down the barrel of his swooping, aristocratic profile. “Can I join you?”

“Well,” March shrugs, “I’m not in a position to object.”

Patrons buzz around the Grim Goblin like mayflies in the balmy heat, beating against the window panes in blurry, ephemeral shapes and raucous conversation. March registers all of it from beneath the swell of a wave, sublimely ensconced in an alcohol-induced haze that has just begun to edge on the verge of peakishness.

“Hermann,” he says, as a way of greeting. Everything about him is clipped, cut directly from the salted earth. The effect of his attention smarts against March’s skin, antiseptic and chilling. He drops into the stool next to him and gestures his emptied stein vaguely in the direction of the barman.

“March.” He blinks dazedly, feeling as though he is a passenger within the conversation. 

“I must have seen you before,” Hermann says, planting his elbows onto the condensation-slick bartop. 

“Alas!” He shrugs. “I am but a poor man.” 

“A pity,” Herman replies sourly. A cloud passes over his stone-cut expression and March stirs, aware that he has fundamentally lost something, just then. “I was sure I'd met you at the theater.”

“I can assure you that you have not. However,” he sweeps his arms in a display of faux ostentatiousness, “If you are to stand firm in your conviction, you are welcome to indulge the whims of a nobleman!” 

“Bah!” Hermann guffaws. “Well, noblemen do enjoy stories, do they not? I should know, being that I am one of them,” he says, shoulders pitched back a little proudly. 

“I rather think they do,” March muses. He cannot say definitively, as his brushes with nobility have always occurred through gilded cages and velveteen curtains, behind gloved palms and paper fans. But of what he, a penniless metal-worker has observed of them, he surmises that they are fickle, fanciful creatures, born in visions of grandeur, molded from silk and fur and depraved whims. Even now, he cannot help but meet this man’s dazzling stare and feel that he is, somehow, the subject of a cruel diversion. 

“Well, you’re in luck,” Hermann replies. “Being of my advanced age, I am wealthy with both time and stories.” His expression grows wistful. “Well, what should it be, then … perhaps a tale of debauchery and mischief-”

“Oh?” March says.

“-A tale of connections, fated and missed!”

“Ah, a romance, then!”

“In one light, perhaps…!” Hermann replies vaguely. “But in another…”

“A tragedy?”

“On the contrary, Your Honor!” His lips twist into a sardonic grin. “I should think that romance in itself is rather tragic. It does have a rather subduing quality on even the wildest of dispositions.” 

“Is that tragic?” March pauses, finishing the remainder of his drink. The acrid wash of bourbon over his tongue centers him momentarily, long enough to ponder the question he’s posed. “Are women not creatures to be tamed, then?”

“Perhaps,” Hermann concedes. “But,” he continues, “I should think that the man who attempts to tame the shrew should also expect to endure the bite of its scorn.” 

“Is that the tale you will spin, then?” March glances at the man quizzically. “A story of a wild woman?” 

Hermann reclines slightly, one arm slung lazily over the seat’s back. “A wild woman, yes.” He pulls his palm over his jawline ponderingly, aware of himself in the innate way of the noble-born. “And the one who tamed her.” 

“Well, sir.” March crosses his arms over his chest and tips his palm out, gesturing for the other to proceed. 

Hermann leans forward, brow cocked in a wicked, conspiratorial expression. “March, my good sir! You are bold, but I will humor you, if only because you remind me of myself.” He slides a handful of coins over the bartop unseeingly and then claps his palms together, drunken with a bit of garish flair and the proximity of a captive audience. 

“Now, then! Our story begins with two sisters…”


	2. An Eligible Lady

All things considered, Tristan Sinclair is a simple man. 

Most are quick to note his jovial sensibilities and easy affectation in spite of his elevated social status. But his father, and his grandfather before him, emulated an inclination towards good character rather than material affairs, and he, in turn, took great lengths to instill this disposition in his own daughters. In his age, he has nary a need for more than a quiet, sunlit afternoon in his study, as he enjoys now, with no lack of contentment.

The Camelia Estate, which has been passed through the hands of Sinclairs generations before him, is perhaps not the most sprawling or illustrious of properties for the likes of a Lord, but it boasts a quaint sort of beauty which he finds far more than sufficient for himself and his daughters. Nestled in the quiet splendor of rural Ardhalis, the Estate is ubiquitously home to him, and time has the pleasant effect of drifting rather inconsequentially among the babble of the distant brook, and the clip of hooves down the winding road beyond.

A knock at his door stirs him from his reverie. “Do come in,” he calls. 

“Sinclair, my good Lord!” With some leisure, Tristan glances up from his newspaper to find Lord Rhysmel regarding him with a placid expression. 

Lord Rhysmel of Greychapel Estate, some three miles west of Camelia, knew Tristan in boyhood. They developed a logical sort of friendship by virtue of falling within the same social circles and being close in age, the natural way of the wealthy. 

“Rhysmel!” Sinclair says, placing his spectacles onto his desk. “To what do I owe the distinct pleasure?” He waves him toward the chair opposite his desk and retrieves a decanter of brandy from his cellarette. 

“The weather is unseasonably warm today, and I was overdue for some riding.” He takes a seat across from Tristan. “I trust your daughters are well, sir?”

“They are in very good health,” Tristan replies, pouring their glasses. 

“And they are still … unattached?” Dakan questions pointedly. Tristan takes a sip of his brandy and regards Dakan with a wan smile. 

“Well! They are hardly spinsters, dear Rhysmel, at only 18 and 19! They have much to see of the world and its affairs, independent of romantic attachments, I should think.” 

Tristan’s daughters, while comparable in beauty, could not be more different in disposition. The younger, Kym, takes after their late mother’s darker complexion and her father’s affable temperament, while Lauren, by contrast, shares the red of Tristan’s family’s hair and a fire in her heart to rival only that of her mother’s. Kym is known for her sociability, Lauren her wit. 

Dakan clears his throat. “I hope that I may speak freely with you, being that you are one of my oldest friends, sir.” He shifts in his chair, suddenly appearing quite vexed. “I trust that what I am to say will not affect your good opinion of me.” 

“By Heavens,” Tristan replies, grinning bemusedly. “Do go on, then.”

“Kym is as lovely as springtime, and her disposition is most pleasing. I trust there is nary an eligible bachelor who won’t find it so,” he begins thoughtfully. 

“I do agree,” Tristan says. 

“Lauren, however…” 

“What of Lauren, sir?”

“Well, my Lord, I rather think — I rather think that she is the least marriageable girl in Ardhalis, and I hope that you will not take offense in my saying so!” 

“Sir!” Tristan interjects. 

“She offers her opinions so freely, and with such conviction, and I trust you will understand that such behavior is most unbecoming in polite society.” 

“On the contrary, Lord Rhysmel, I do not see why my daughter should be expected to deny herself of such mental fortitude simply by virtue of her sex.” Tristan runs his hand through his hair, belying his frustrations with a veneer of diplomacy. “Lauren is well-read in most all subjects of academia. I should think her opinions offer great substance and value.”

“It is far more appropriate for the gentler sex to thusly enjoy gentler whims, such as embroidery, and painting, rather than speaking so boldly as men do.”

“My daughters are well-versed in a variety of avocations. Lauren is exceedingly proficient in archery-”

“A brutish pastime for an eligible lady!” 

“Lord Rhysmel,” Tristan says softly, but with great conviction. “I admire your concern for my daughter, but I assure you that I am well-suited to raise her, as I have made it thus far and rather think that she would make an excellent match for a worthy husband.” 

“I see, Lord Sinclair,” Dakan replies, tipping his glass towards Tristan. “I only wish to ensure the prosperity of the Sinclair fortune, and, by virtue, the Camelia Estate.” 

“A noble cause, indeed!” Tristan replies, good-humoredly. 

“There is one other matter, sir,’ Dakan says, rather gravely. He fixes the brim of his cap over his forehead and meets Tristan’s earnest expression with some trepidation. “She is still … rather preoccupied with Katherina’s passing, is she not?”

Tristan sighs, setting his glass down on the lacquered wood. “I should not attempt to understand her grief, nor should anyone, I think,” he says, his tone roughened, for the first time, with a color of irritation. 

“Of course not."

A silence falls upon the room, transient as a cloud passing over the sun. “Now, then!” Tristan clears his throat, and it has the effect of a falling curtain, a closed blind. He conjures a wan smile with a genial flourish. “Let us speak of other matters, dear friend!”

“You must forgive me, ma’am,” Lauren says, twirling a fork between her fingertips. “But I would not have felt inclined to take an afternoon nap had your lecture not been so exceedingly boring.” She glances at her ruddied knuckles, still sore from where Lady Artingham had cracked them with her ruler. “You must understand that this room is rather pleasantly warm, and the subject matter frightfully dull. It is simply a matter of consequence, then, that I might drift to sleep.” She glances at Kym, who shifts in her chair to conceal a chuckle behind her gloved palm. 

Lady Artingham is the latest victim of a long line of ill-fortuned etiquette instructors fixed with the tall task of gazing upon the rubble that is Lauren Sinclair and making something magnificent out of it. Some leave in tears, other with vacant, catatonic expressions. Irrespective of their disposition upon leaving, they most unanimously vow to never again step foot on the cursed grounds of the Camelia Estate. 

“Miss Sinclair,” Lady Artingham croaks. “Your decorum is most egregious! You would do well to act more like your sister.”

“So I’ve heard,” Lauren replies dryly. “However, I cannot imagine a practical use for such a delicate instrument, and find that I would much prefer a bow and arrow in matters of combat.” 

“Miss Sinclair,” Lady Artingham hisses, nearly apoplectic. “That is a salad fork, not a weapon, a fact which the more dignified among us would know. You, however, choose to run amok like some sort of — ruffian! And play in the woods and do other things of the savage sort!”

Lauren tips her chin into her palm. “Ah, a salad fork,” she murmurs, as though hearing the word for the first time. “Thank you for enlightening me, a simple ruffian.”

“Sometimes, I look upon that beautiful face, and I —” Lady Artingham chokes back a sob. “I feel like a positive failure! How is it, then, that divine providence would bestow this handsome complexion on such an untamed creature?”

“Lady Artingham!” Kym says, cheeks rosied with an amusement. “Someone of your delicate constitution should perhaps consider resting,” she suggests, lips pressed together into a wavering line. 

“Kym,” Lady Artigham whispers, dabbing delicately at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. “You, my darling, are the only hope for the Sinclair name.” 

“Indeed, dear sister,” Lauren replies. “I shall remember you when I return to the wild, to run amok with the other savage creatures-”

“I’m glad you find this so funny, Miss Sinclair,” Lady Artingham hisses. “Your etiquette lesson is dismissed. I fear you are hopeless. Please, take your leave, lest I fear my poor nerves may never recover.” 

“Thank goodness! Come, sister,” Lauren says, reaching for Kym’s wrist. They skip like shadows through the ornate halls of the Camelia Estate, tossing harried greetings to the maids, chattering gaily in their newfound freedom of an unattended afternoon. 

“Lauren, you are positively wicked,” Kym exclaims. “You’ll give poor Lady Artingham a heart attack at this rate!” 

“Tch!” Lauren sneers. “Lady Artingham hasn’t a heart at all, but a lump of coal where one should be,” she replies. “Say!” Lauren skids to a stop at the treshhold of the courtyard, the central artery into which everything in Camelia Estate leads. It is bordered by lush greenery on all sides, spindly vines and wide, fanning trees that snake around the scalloped marble archways and catch the afternoon sun in pleasant, gauzy shapes. The central square leads to the stables to the east, the library to the west, and the bedchambers and dining hall to the north and south, respectively. 

"What?" Kym asks, nudging her sister's shoulder. "You look as though you've seen a ghost." 

"Let's go to the market," Lauren says, her topaz gaze bright with mischief. "I'm starved for some entertainment."

"Ha!" Kym exclaims. "You are always starved for entertainment."

"And today particularly so," Lauren replies. She breaks into a jog towards the crest of the hill which overlooks the crooked spit of road leading to the town center, Kym calling jovially after her to slow down. 

"I cannot run in this blasted corset, you tyrant!" Kym shouts.

"Ladies!" George Langston, the groundskeeper, calls after them, peering perplexedly after their retreating forms. "I shall prepare the carriage for you!"

"No need, Mr. Langston!" Kym shouts over her shoulder. "We find walking to be most sufficient, especially in such agreeable weather!" 

They walk arm-in-arm to the market, bright with vigor and rejuvenated by the balm in the air, tepid as bathwater. Being an unseasonably pleasant October afternoon, the market is alive with frenzied energy, sights and sounds which war for attention, merchants peddling their wares and children flitting like running water through the throng, chattering merrily. 

"Lauren," Kym says, her narrowed gaze peering through the crowd. "Do you see that? I think that that is the young Duke's carriage." 

Indeed, a gold-plated carriage passes leisurely through the town square, bearing the insignia of the royal crest on its doors. Some crane their necks to peer within the pleated curtains for a glimpse of the royal himself, Duke William Hawkes of L'Arlequin, who is noted to be just as benevolent in temperament as he is striking in complexion, with features like polished gold and an easiness of his manner. 

"Bah!" Lauren says. "I should presume that he is haughty, and self-important, as is the way of royals," she posits, flitting her palm in the direction of the carriage. 

"I've heard that he is quite nice," Kym replies. 

"As have I," a different voice intones, low, like the rumble of river water over stone. The women turn to find a man regarding them with a bemused expression, holding in one palm a short blade, in the other an apple. He slices off a piece with a shick and chews slowly, a lazy sort of interest sparking in his blue gaze. "I should think that your assessment, however confidently spoken, is rather prejudiced in nature."

He is striking in a way that is nearly overwhelming, like sunlight glancing off of a snowbank. Coal-dark hair fixed into a knotted ribbon, mussed with the wind and the sort of casual predisposition that can't be manufactured. Swooping, distinguished features, sharp enough to somehow convey a sort of severe intentionality: A cut of jawline, a straight barrel nose, a thin, sulky sort of mouth, permanently fixed into the whisper of a grin. He is nearly monochromatic, save for the blue of his eyes: like swollen rain clouds, like the hottest point of a wildfire. 

"And I should think," Lauren replies cuttingly, "That is is rude to infringe upon conversations which you were not a part of to begin with." Their gazes narrow, clashing in intensity — his, bright with amusement, hers, keen enough to smart. 

"Hello!" Kym says, grinning toothily. "My name is Kym." 

"A pleasure, Kym," the stranger replies. "Would you like a piece of apple?"

"Thank you, sir, but I much prefer watermelon!" She loops her arm through Lauren's. "This is my sister, Lauren."

"Charmed," he replies, his grin broadening as he regards Lauren's blackened expression. 

"That makes one of us," she replies flatly. 

"Lauren!" Kym whispers. 

"You are royal, I presume?" Lauren asks, saying royal with the inflection one might reserve for words such as diseased or incompetent. "You do defend them most ardently." Her eyes flit to his outfit, which is unassuming in nature — simple black trousers and a white linen tunic, adorned smartly with ruffle at the collar, and plain, muddied riding boots. It contains none of the ostentatious sort of accouterments she might expect to see on a noble person.

"On the contrary!" He exclaims affably. "I am no one of consequence. But if I may, ma'am -"

"You may not-"

"-If I am to judge the smartness of your own attire, as well as that of your sisters," he says, inspecting their lace frocks and gloved hands, "Then I might wager that you, also, are noble-born, and thus subject to the same assessment you so audaciously delivered." He pauses, a knowing grin bracketing the edges of his lips. "Are you to say that you, too, are ... what words did you use, again? Haughty and self-important?" 

"Of course," Lauren replies, tipping her head in agreement. "I am the most egregious offender of them all, in that regard."

"Ha!" He exclaims, flashing a brilliant row of teeth. "She is a funny one, is she not?" He turns to Kym, still beaming. 

"Indeed!" Kym replies. "My sister is the funniest and wittiest girl I have ever met, though some do not see it so, I am afraid." 

"Naturally," the man replies, his gaze still fixed intently on Lauren. "Well, ladies, it was most enjoyable, though I really must be going. Do take care." 

"You as well, sir!" Kym says. 

"Hmph," Lauren grunts. 

He bows gracefully and then is gone, melted into the crowd like a shadow in the cresting sun. The girls stare after him for a moment, each wearing comically different expressions. 

"You are so severe in your perceptions of people!" Kym exclaims. They drift through the market stalls, still linked arm-in-arm. "He was quite handsome, I think."

Lauren hands one of the merchants a handful of coins in exchange for two slices of watermelon. "You are too forgiving, sister. Any handsomeness of his complexion was ruined by his disposition." She hands a slice to Kym and they walk quietly, relishing the sweet wash of fruit over their tongues and the pleasantness of the afternoon sun.

Up ahead, the Duke's horses have drawn to a stop in the middle of the road, and a small crowd gathers near the carriage, chattering speculatively. Lauren and Kym glance at one another and then walk closer, elbowing their way through the throng.

"Why — there's a child!" Someone nearby exclaims. "I think he dropped his ball."

A child kneels in the dirt in front of the horses, presumably searching for something. When the carriage doors open, a hush falls over the audience, now captive in the presence of the twinkling, untouchable presence of the Duke. 

"Why, he is positively comely," a woman whispers. Indeed, the sunlight does dance upon the Duke's complexion most favorably as he steps out of the carriage. He comes to a stop next to the child and then pauses, murmuring something that they cannot hear. 

"What is he-" Lauren begins. 

The Duke kneels next to the child and reaches behind one of the carriage wheels, and, after some effort, eventually produces a small rubber ball. He dusts it off on his pant leg and then presents it to the child with a dazzling grin. 

"Thank you, Your Grace!" The child exclaims. He scrambles into a bow and then dashes back back through the crowd, cheeks rosied with flush. The Duke watches after him with an amused expression, then re-enters the carriage and is gone, and the spectacle is concluded nearly as quickly as it began. 

"Well," Kym says, after a long moment. She glances up at Lauren, lips quirked into a mischievous expression. "Perhaps that handsome stranger was correct, sister."

"Perhaps," Lauren murmurs thoughtfully, eyes narrowed in speculation. "Or, perhaps it was all for show."

They finish their watermelon in pensive quiet and begin the walk back to the Camelia Estate.

"I just realized," Kym remarks slowly. "That man. He never did give us his name." 

"It is of little importance, anyway," Lauren replies.

"Strange..." Kym muses. "He spoke with such eloquence, but was dressed rather simply. I shall ask Papa if he knows of such a man. He knows most everyone." 

"Well!" Lauren exclaims. "I shall hope to never see such an arrogant creature again!"

Kym tosses her head back in laughter. "You will get your comeuppance just for saying that, dear sister! One day, a man will sweep you clean off of your feet, and you will have nothing at all to say of the matter." 

Lauren shudders. "I cannot think of a crueler fate, indeed."


	3. A Nefarious Scheme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a clever design goes terribly awry and an invitation is extended.

“What is this?” 

A crisp afternoon at L’Arlequin begins in much of the same manner as it does most Tuesdays: With an art lesson, though, on this particular afternoon, the instruction is decidedly one-sided in participation. Kieran plants his hands on his hips, scowling at the canvas with no veneer of diplomacy. “This is all wrong. Did you even _look_ at the reference? The light is coming from the _left,_ not the right.” 

William gazes unseeingly out the window overlooking L’Arlequin Manor, to the sputtering marble fountain in the epicenter of the gyre pattern of manicured lawn and hedges, and beyond it, the untamed thicket of Ardhalis countryside. A thick blanket of fog rolls over the grounds lazily, tangling with the remnants of morning dew and rendering a dreamlike quality of the coiffed landscape. “Hm?” 

“Pardon me from interrupting, _Your Grace,”_ Kieran says, using the honorific with sardonic inflection, “But as much as I enjoy the sound of my own voice, I find that I do rather appreciate the newfangled convention called _conversation._ It’s where one person talks, and then another listens, and then that person responds in kind.”

“Uh huh,” William says. 

Kieran picks up a piece of charcoal from the easel and, in a gesture which is decidedly not palace-approved, promptly chucks it at the back of his head.

“Ow!” William yelps, palming at the back of his scalp. He spins away from the window, cheeks colored with temper. “What on earth was that for?”

“I said,” Kieran begins, slowly, as though William is a proper simpleton, “ _What is this_?” He gestures to the canvas with an impatient flick of his wrist. 

William sighs. “I suppose I’m rather distracted.” 

“You’d suppose correctly,” Kieran huffs. This is your worst work yet-”

“Well! That’s rather harsh-”

“-Which is saying something, considering your aptitude, or _lack thereof_ , for the arts, and the great pains I’ve taken to instill some sense of culture in you.” 

“Ha!” William barks, and then crosses the length of the drawing room to stand beside Kieran. They spend a quiet moment inspecting the canvas, and, to the left of it, the still life William was meant to depict: A Venetian vase, flanked on either side by ripe oranges and boughs of white cherry blossoms. In the recreation, however, William’s uncertain hand is made evident by the tremulous linework, producing a rather lumpy quality to the fruit, and a gnarled, skeletal rendering of the boughs. 

“It is rather dreadful,” William murmurs in concession. 

“What, pray tell, could have possibly caused such a catastrophic lapse in judgement?” Kieran inquires dully.

“Not _what_ , but _whom_ ,” he sighs.

Kieran groans. “Don’t tell me-”

“I have nary spent a quiet moment unable to think of her, Kieran! She was most entrancing, and with such a youthful disposition!”

“Yes, as you have reiterated to me most enthusiastically, and at great length.” 

“And her companion was most handsome as well! You said that she is her sister?”

“Yes.” Kieran turns to the window, a ghost of a smirk pulling at his lips. “Her sister is very … spirited,” he replies. 

William turns to Kieran, and the spark Kieran recognizes in his blue gaze is one that is as familiar as it is disconcerting, in this particular moment, because he knows that William has just thought of something clever. “We must invite them both to the palace at once.”

Kieran sighs, dropping heavily onto the velveteen armchair. He tips his head back, tracing patterns in the ceiling’s textured crown molding, tiny depictions of cherubs that line the perimeter of the room. If anyone felt compelled to ask for Kieran's opinion regarding the most beautiful room in L’Arlequin Manor, he would most certainly choose this one. While it pales in relative comparison to the grandeur of the illustrious ballroom, with its crushed gold drapes and blood-red spiraling staircase, the east wing’s drawing room’s allure is a quieter one, alive in the scent of warmed parchment and the long, buttery shadows that stretch along the walls like a pianist’s fingers when the afternoon sun hits it just so. 

“ _We_ must not do anything, and I will not be pulled into your schemes. If you wish to invite them to the palace, by all means, please do so _independently._ ”

“Have you never been bewitched by a woman?” William asks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Tch,” Kieran scoffs. “I am not so liberal with matters of the heart as you, my good friend.” 

The dappled mid-afternoon light has the effect of making William look seraphic, ablaze in melted butter and polished copper, lips fixed into a whisper of a pout, brows dimpled at the center. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kieran says, eyes narrowed in accusation. 

“Tell me what you learned of them, at least.”

Kieran hums. “She prefers watermelon.”

“ _T_ _hat’s_ what you’ve got?” William clicks his tongue in exasperation. “I sent you over there for the express purpose of divulging more information-”

“-A gross abuse of your Dukely power, I might add-”

“-And all you’ve got to show for it is her _fruit of preference_?”

“Fine,” Kieran says, tossing his palms up in surrender. “She is named Kym Sinclair, her sister Lauren. I presume that they reside at Camelia Estate. If my suspicions are correct, their father is Lord Tristan Sinclair.”

William’s expression grows thoughtful.

“ _No,_ ” Kieran says flatly. “Whatever it is you’re about to say-”

“Kieran, my good chap,” William begins, tapping his chin with his index finger. “I do think today is a splendid day for some riding.” 

  
  
  


“Lauren! Do climb down, or you’ll break your leg!”

Lauren grips the edge of the branch near her hip, her confidence in her resolve quickly diminishing with the altitude. At this height, Camelia Estate is a far-off mirage of sandstone and marble, a vague imprint of something recognizable. She sucks in a lungful of chilled air and peers down at the dark shape of her sister’s head. “I wouldn’t have _needed_ to climb up here had your aim been better!” 

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you!” Kym calls. “Maybe if your blasted bow hadn’t been so _heavy-”_

“ _Maybe,_ if you weren’t so _incompetent-”_ Lauren starts to retort, but the low creak that branch gives just then sweeps the remainder of her sentence away with the shifting breeze. She flexes her fingers around the trunk and peers up through the leaves, at last spotting the tip of the arrow where it's sunken into the bark. 

“Found it!” She calls.

“For heaven’s sake, Lauren, just come down! Papa will replace the bloody arrow if only you ask him.” 

“Nonsense,” Lauren replies. “It’s only just a bit further.” For a moment, she’s sure she can hear the sound of hooves against packed earth, steady as a drumbeat, and just as quickly it’s passed. She blinks at the winding road, split through the dense horizon like a knife to butter. 

“Then why have you stopped?” Kym calls. “Is it because you’re sc-”

“I am not _scared,”_ Lauren spits. “I am simply … enjoying the scenery.” 

Kym’s tinkling laughter hangs in the breeze like dew. “Sure, you are … say, what is that?” 

“What is what?” Lauren calls, though Kym’s attention has long-since diverted to the road ahead, where two dark figures clip down the road on horseback, heading directly towards the Estate. Kym gathers her skirts and ambles to the crest of the hill to get a closer look. A towhead and a darker one, both mussed with wind, their slim figures bent over two brilliant steeds that split the air like a smear of a quill through an ink pot. 

Lauren can hardly discern much beyond the vagueness of their forms, though when she peers through the forking branches to the hill below, her sister’s expression registers with perfect clarity: Lips parted, complexion blanched like fresh snowfall, fingertips still frozen around the muddied hem of her skirts. Lauren’s palm curls around the hilt of the arrow and she pulls it free with a muted _thunk._

“Lauren,” Kym calls. “I think that is…”

“The… Duke?” Lauren murmurs, incredulous. “It cannot be.” 

And yet, somehow, it is. Duke William Hawkes draws to a languid stop at the base of the hill, his steed scattering loose earth with a stamp of its hooves. Up close, he handsomeness is nearly ephemeral — a timeless, antiquated sort of beauty that is nostalgia reanimated, fossilized within a film of grain and sepia. He has the kind of face that you look at and can’t help but picture what he must have looked like in boyhood, evidenced by a lingering, impish grin, and a wicked, gleaming gaze.

All the same, the fluidity of his posture and regality of his presence radiates an innately powerful sort of calm, in effect commanding a quiet lull over his audience. As is what happens now, rendering the Sinclair women uncharacteristically quiet. 

“Good afternoon!” He exclaims. 

It is only then that Lauren registers his companion when he, too, slows his horse and murmurs a quieter greeting. She cannot certainly discern who he is, as her view is partially obscured by the foliage, though there is something inherently recognizable in his tone. 

Lauren spends a long moment watching The Duke and, after a length, wondering if someone has died, for she cannot think of another reason for such an unexpected visit, and to such a relatively inconsequential Estate. 

It is only when three pairs of eyes - two blue, one brown - peer up at her that Lauren realizes she has inadvertently posed this pondering aloud. 

“Oh! No — er, no one has died!” comes the slightly exasperated reply from the Duke. Then, after a moment’s pause: “Why are you in a tree?” 

“I apologize, Your Grace!” Kym hurries into a curtsy. Her wide, startled gaze darts up to meet Lauren’s through the foliage. “Please forgive us, we were not expecting visitors.” 

“Not at all!” The Duke replies. “I, er, apologize for … intruding.” 

“Are you planning on coming down,” that familiar voice intones, “Or are you enjoying the altitude?” Lauren freezes, and when the Duke’s dark-haired companion dismounts his horse and steps closer to the base of the tree, a sinking realization clicks into place. He meets her gaze through the greenery, those stunning blue irises cut directly from glass, burned by sun and salt and tide. 

“ _You_ ,” Lauren hisses.

“Hello again, Lauren!” The man calls cheerily, smiling with a flash of teeth. 

“Oh! You are the man from the market!” Kym exclaims. 

“Guilty as charged!” He exclaims cheekily. “My name is Keiran White. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance once more.” He sweeps into a low bow and takes Kym’s palm in his, pressing his lips lightly to the back of her hand. 

William dismounts his own steed and joins Kieran and Kym at the base of the tree. “What a happy coincidence,” he says genially. 

“I am surprised to find you in the area,” Kym says. “Camelia is quite far north from L’Arlequin Manor, and with far more agreeable riding terrain to the south.” 

“Ah, we decided to take the scenic route!” Kieran says. “And what a fortuitous decision that proved to be,” he adds, meeting Lauren’s narrowed gaze again through the thicket. 

“Fortuitous indeed,” Lauren murmurs dryly.

“Well, I am very pleased,” Kym says, and William grins boyishly at her, the tips of his ears tinged a little pink. 

“Do you need help, my lady?” William asks, peering concernedly at Lauren. 

“Thank you, Your Grace, but I am quite alright.” A beat passes during which the three appraise her in thoughtful quiet. “Right, then!” She exclaims. “I suppose I should come down now.” 

“Right,” Kieran says, nodding affirmatively. “Unless, of course, you plan to make a home out of that tree.” 

Lauren grinds her teeth together, now more determined than before to display her dexterity and make a proper fool of this infuriating man. She tucks the arrow underneath her arm and, after some consideration, swings her leg over the branch and drops to lower foothold. She pauses, drawing in a steadying breath as she regains stability, her vision narrowing to a pinprick as she peers down at the three figures below. 

“Be careful, Lauren!” Kym calls. 

“Does she do this often?” William asks, head cocked charmingly as he examines her the way you might a perplexing specimen. 

“I’m afraid it was my fault, Your Grace,” Kym replies. “She went up there to fetch an arrow.”

“Do you enjoy archery, then?”

“Oh, yes! Though my sister is far more proficient than I.”

“As evidenced by my being in a tree at the present moment,” Lauren replies, swinging onto a lower foothold more quickly now, and with some increased confidence. 

“You should slow down, my lady,” Kieran says, his gaze narrowing. “The branches are rather thin there —”

“Thank you for your input, sir,” Lauren replies. “But I am quite capable.”

“Of course,” Kieran replies lowly. “I would never make such a presumption as to insinuate that you are anything less than wholly capable,” he says, and although the words are complimentary, his eyes sparkle with mirth.

Lauren huffs indignantly, her cheeks warm with unbridled irritation. Peering beyond the branch, she judges the distance and assumes that she can, for a more expeditious option, forgo the next branch and slide onto the one just below it. But when she inches forward, the hem of her skirt catches against the limb, and she doesn’t notice that she’s missed the next foothold until she is already airborne, tumbling rather gracelessly and expediently towards the ground. 

Beneath the swell of blood in her ears, she registers Kym’s panicked cry, and the whip-sharp sting of rough bark against her cheek. Greenery blurs in her vision in fast, kaleidoscopic bursts, and then she collides with something firm, but decidedly softer than the surface of the ground. 

“ _Oof-_ ”

A pair of arms close around her waist as she falls down the hillside, and she dully notices the warmth and competence of their grip as they tumble over the soft grass. Two indignant blue eyes explode into vibrant focus, suddenly overwhelming in their proximity, twin flames branding her skin with scorching intensity.

Lauren twists, trapped in the cage of his arms, his lips hovering within inches of hers. They both gulp hungrily for oxygen, pupils blown wide and unfocused. A moment hangs in the balance during which neither moves, and then, as though remembering herself, her mouth twists into a scowl. 

“Get off of me,” Lauren breathes, pushing the heel of her palm against his abdomen.

The grip releases her as they skid to a stop, Lauren flat against her back at the base of the hill, chest heaving with exertion. 

“You...” Kieran pants, pushing himself onto his elbows, his hair pressed flat against the side of his head where it must have collided with the earth. “Are the … most … stubborn person … I have ever met.”

“Excellent,” Lauren replies, her fingers fumbling to loosen her boned corset so that she may breathe properly. “I shall take that as a compliment.” 

“You!” Kieran explodes, scrambling onto his knees. “The least you could say is _thank you-_ ”

“For what, sir? I had the situation well under control-”

“The _situation_ that involved you falling out of a bloody tree?!” He barks an incredulous laugh and leans forward to reply when two pairs of footsteps come skidding into their periphery down the hill. 

“Lauren, are you alright?” Kym calls. She falls to her knees beside Lauren’s head, palming at her face for signs of injury. 

“ _Mmph_ \- Kym, I’m fine,” She replies, swatting her sister’s hands away and clamoring awkwardly into an upright position. 

“Kieran,” Kym turns to him, her expressive face bright with admiration. “I rather think you saved my foolish sister.”

“All in a day’s work,” he replies flatly, smoothing his mussed hair down with his palm. 

“I’m glad to see that you’re alright, my lady,” William says. “That was a very gallant rescue effort, good chap!” he says to Kieran, grinning crookedly. 

“Indeed,” Kieran says cooly, fixing his hardened stare onto Lauren’s face. 

“Right, then,” Lauren says, pushing herself to her feet. “I think…” 

She trails off, fixing her narrowed gaze on the road ahead. When the Barouche carriage rounds a corner and slides into view, the sisters turn to one another, twin pictures of surprise. 

“Papa,” they breathe in unison. 

Lauren fixes her gaze up at the sky, wondering if she’s done something to smite the Divine providence. 

The footman rounds the corner of the carriage and opens the doors to reveal none other than a rather nonplussed Lord Tristan Sinclair. “Hello, girls,” he says slowly, confusion knotted in his brow as he glances over Lauren’s bedraggled appearance, corset still loosened, twigs knotted in her auburn hair. 

“And .. Your Grace!” He adds, hurrying into a bow. “I have not seen you since you were a young boy!”

“It is wonderful to see you again, Lord Sinclair,” William says.

“Whatever brings you to Camelia Estate? And, please,” he adds, turning now to Kieran. “Do introduce me to your friend.” 

“Ah! This is Kieran White, sir.”

“Pleasure,” Kieran murmurs, dipping into a bow. 

“We happened to be riding in the area and came upon your lovely daughters,” William says, pulling at his lapels rather shyly. 

“Well! What a wonderful turn of fate,” Tristan replies.

"Most _fortuitous_ ," Kieran says pointedly. 

Tristan turns back to William. “Seeing as you are in the area, you must join us for dinner, Your Grace.” 

Lauren’s eyes widen. “Papa-”

“I would not wish to intrude,” William says politely, tipping his palms out in a gesture of bashfulness. 

“Nonsense!” Tristan replies. “It will be no trouble at all to have the cook prepare two additional settings, assuming—” He turns back to Kieran, smiling warmly, “Your friend would like to join us, as well?”

“If you’ll have me,” Kieran says, glancing at Lauren. His smirk widens as her own complexion darkens. “It would be my pleasure.” 

“It’s settled, then!” Tristan says, clapping his palms together. “Please do feel free to bring your steeds to the stable, just around the corner here. And Lauren…” 

He turns to his daughter now, frowning again over her disheveled countenance. “Do clean up before dinner, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! A fast chapter update!
> 
> I normally do not write this quickly, but I was so excited to get to this chapter and found myself working on it immediately after finishing the first two. Honestly, this adaptation is just one long excuse to indulge my thirst for...
> 
> 1\. WILLAME  
> 2\. Enemies to lovers trope  
> 3\. Movie cliches 
> 
> Please let me know what you think of this so far, and as always, I am sending all my love to you, my wonderful reader. 
> 
> -Rabbit


	4. A Garden Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dinner is had and assumptions are traded.

Lila Desroses’ pallid complexion flickers in the candelabrum, delicate as frost over a windowpane. Lauren watches her in the vanity as she weaves her fingers through the hair at the nape of Lauren’s neck, prying remnants of debris from her auburn locks with quiet precision. “You really must be careful, my lady.” 

Lauren catches her eye in the reflection and smiles warmly. Lila, Lauren’s favorite among the Sinclair family’s maids, also occupies the singular soft spot in Lauren’s heart, shared only by her father and sister. With a countenance much like a teardrop and a temper as soft as springtime, represents a purity Lauren admires. 

“I am nothing but, Lila!” She replies. 

“Those gentlemen are…” Her gaze darts up to meet Lauren’s in the mirror and then returns to her hands just as quickly, a shy blush blooming across her cheekbones. “Very handsome, are they not, my lady?”

“ _Tch_ ,” Lauren replies. “The Duke, perhaps. But his…” Her eyes narrow. “ _Friend_ , I should think, soils any handsomeness of his features as soon as he opens his mouth.” 

The door to Lauren’s bedchamber bursts open in spins Kym Sinclair, cheeks pinkened with fervor. “Lauren! Lila!” She exclaims, laying her palm flat against her breastbone, as though posing for a portrait. “The Duke of L’Arlequin is in our sitting room with Papa.” 

“Yes,” Lauren replies. “I was there, Kym.” 

She drops to her knees in front of Lauren’s armoire and wrenches open the bottom drawer and, with no certain regard for decorum, begins pulling out garments, rendering the room a proper tornado of silk and tulle. 

“Hey!” Lauren exclaims. “Those are mine-”

“What on earth is one supposed to wear to dinner with the _Duke of L’Arlequin_?” She spends a moment regarding a forest green shawl and then tosses it over her shoulder. 

“Why are they really here?” Lauren murmurs speculatively, watching her reflection in the vanity. Lila has rendered her something of a doll-like imagining of herself: lips lacquered with a rose sheen, cheeks powdered with a fresh flush, as though bitten by a coldsnap, her expression smooth and youthful. She looks, disturbingly, every bit the picture of the demure socialite that she’s expected to be. “I am not inclined to believe their earlier explanation.”

“Whatever the reason, it is most exciting,” Kym replies, her eyes gleaming as she spins, her skirts billowed out like a ripple in a pond. 

“It would be _most exciting_ if you’d consider _wearing_ any of the clothes you’ve thrown about the room, as much as I enjoy your choice of interior design,” Lauren says, picking up a ribbon she’d discarded.

Kym flops onto Lauren’s bed, raven head tipped backward. Her tawny gaze, narrowed and simpering, assesses them from upside-down. “And what of Kieran White?”

Lauren turns, swift as a whip’s crack. “What of him?” 

A slow, coy grin brackets the corners of her mouth. “Oh, I don’t know…”

“Out with it, you dolt,” Lauren snaps.

Lila places the hair brush onto the vanity and glances between them, her gaze drifting fitfully like a buoy against tide. Her mouth pops open, then clamps shut just as swiftly. 

Kym rolls onto her stomach and cups her chin in her palms. “What on earth has that man done to offend you so comprehensively?” 

Lila moves to loosen the strings of Lauren’s corset, replacing the torn, muddied garment with a muted ochre bodice that compliments the red of her hair handsomely. Her nimble fingers move fitfully to assemble the corset, militantly avoiding being swept up into the swift undercurrent of the Sinclair sisters’ antics. 

“He has not offended me,” Lauren replies stiffly.

“No? You could have fooled me!”

“He simply…vexes me.”

“He has been nothing but cordial to us!”

The lilt of his smirk, bent like a curve at the end of a spit of road, flits through her memory. Two lingering blue eyes, clear like a layer of frost over placid lakewater, bright and reflective with the gleam of an unspoken joke. “That is where you and I differ, sister.” Lila steps back and Lauren frowns at her reflection in the mirror, a coiffed caricature of something recognizable. “You are too trusting of people.” 

Kym snorts. “Name one wicked thing he’s done to you and I shall rest my case.” 

“He…” Lauren draws her lip between her teeth. “I… cannot name anything specifically but-”

Kym tosses her head back in uproarious laughter. “You are the most prejudiced girl I have ever met, Lauren Sinclair!” 

Lauren grabs a throw pillow from the chaise and lobs it at Kym’s head. 

“ _Ouch_! Why, you-”

Lila clears her throat quietly, lightly tapping her lower lip with her index finger. “Pardon me, ladies-”

“If I am prejudiced then _you_ are naive, which is perhaps even worse!” 

Kym’s laughter has steadfastly dissolved into hiccuping sobs. She dabs at the corners of her eyes, dampened with fresh tears. “I’d much prefer _that_ to your predisposition!”

“Ladies-”

“Pray tell, what predisposition do you speak of, sister dearest?”

Kym swipes at her cheeks with her palms, her lingering grin waning as she regains her breath. “Why, your predisposition towards utterly _hating_ the very air that Kieran White breathes!”

A sharp rap at the door sweeps the noise from the room like a broom to a dust pan. Lila opens it to find another maid regarding the women meekly, her palms clasped behind her aproned waist. 

“Good evening, ladies. Lord Sinclair has sent me to inform you that dinner is prepared.”

Kym’s gaze widens to saucers. She scrambles off of Lauren’s bed with the elegance of a newborn foal, smoothing a harried hand over a mussed lock that springs back up just as quickly, like a coiled spring. “I haven’t even chosen what to wear!”

Lauren smirks, waving to her sister with a twitch of her fingers. “Perhaps it would do you good to focus more on your _own_ predispositions, sister. Particularly towards being late for dinner.” She nods her thanks to the maids and pivots out of the room in an elegant flourish.

“You wicked girl,” Kym breathes, her expression warm with admiration.

  
  
  


Lauren sweeps into the dining hall a near-perfect picture of propriety, with a pinched flush to the apples of her cheeks and a pleasant sheen against her skin, like dew to a spiderweb. But her gilded stare, like the reflection of light against something sharpened, will always betray the barb on the tip of her tongue. 

“Good evening,” she says, producing a wan, brittle grin. Her shrewd glance assesses the dining table like a playing board: Tristan at the head, Kieran to the left, William to the right. After an infinitesimal breath of hesitation, she slides into the chair next to Kieran. 

The dining room is quietly elegant, somehow regal and unassuming simultaneously — a crackling, gilded fireplace takes up much of the west wall, perhaps Lauren’s second favorite feature in the room, with the first being the large mural of the Ardhalis countryside suspended just above it. To the north of the room, hazy light filters in through the large bay windows, made somewhat ethereal through the veil of gauzy cream drapes and creating the lasting effect of twilight, regardless of the time of day.

A crystal chandelier hangs above the polished oak dining table in the center of the room, casting shadowed shapes over the faces of the three men that assess her now, each with different expressions — her father proud, William affable, and Kieran thoughtful. He appraises her quietly, gaze partially narrowed, with none of the pomp and circumstance she’s come to recognize of his expression. 

“Lauren, dear,” Tristan begins, “Where is your sister-”

Kym skids into the room then in her typical fashion, with a breathless, apologetic rush of motion, her lips parted with exertion as she dips into a hurried curtsy. “Apologies for my absence.” She slips into the chair next to William and Lauren snorts, meeting her sister’s gaze with a lazy, crawling smirk.

In spite of the circumstances, they stumble through the first course with relative ease, Lauren adopting the stance of the demure noblewoman — which is to say, a proper charlatan — Kym quick to fill the gaps in the conversation with thoughtless affability and a quick wit much like a match to a darkened room. William watches her with unabashed interest, his gaze bright with the sort of quiet fascination one might adopt when looking upon something wild and perplexing, like a summer rainstorm. One that appears quietly and without fanfare, splitting the syrupy air like a hatchet, drenching anything in its wake with reckless abandon. 

“I was very sorry to hear of your father, Your Grace,” Tristan says, his tone warm with empathy. “He was a wonderful man.” 

“Thank you, my lord,” William replies, his expression suddenly shadowed with a memory. “I hope to do right by his legacy. And please, do call me William.” 

William, being the sole child of Philip and Marguerite Hawkes, was thus thrust in Dukedom and propriety over L’Arlequin upon the death of his father, the late Prince Philip, rather unceremoniously and without fanfare. His coronation ceremony was a quiet one, with the somber air of the day lingering close behind the joy, like a shadow to the moon’s face.

“I think you’ve done a wonderful job,” Kym says warmly. 

He turns to her, his profile awash in the shifting caress of the candlelight, cheeks pinkened with humility. “Thank you, my lady,” he replies softly, and with much affection.

Lauren glances between the two of them suspiciously, and then, feeling the glare of Kieran’s fixed attention in her periphery, turns to him. A silent conversation passes between them in which he cocks his head a bit to the left, one shoulder raised in a shrug. 

“Speaking of which, Kieran,” Tristan asks. “Where is your family from?”

Lauren’s proximity to Kieran is the only reason she catches the stiffening of his spine, the flex of his fingers around his butter knife, subtle as a twitch of a butterfly’s wings. “The Hawkes were gracious enough to welcome me into their home from the time that I was a young boy,” Kieran replies. His eyes flick upwards to meet William’s, who watches him intently. “It is a debt I will not soon be able to repay.” 

“Such a debt does not exist,” William replies. 

Lauren catches Kieran’s glance, then, his gaze dimmed and mirthless. Something about the sight feels inexplicably discordant, like a candle snuffed of its flame. 

By the time the braised lamb and roasted vegetables arrive, the conversation steers towards the seemingly neutral topic of the sisters’ preferred avocations. 

“I learned today that Lauren is fond of outdoor excursions,” Kieran says. 

Lauren glowers into her plate. “I find the air most refreshing,” she replies cooly. 

“Indeed!” Tristan replies blithely. “Lauren is excellent with a bow and arrow.”

“What activities do you prefer?” William asks, turning to Kym.

“Ah! Well, I do quite enjoy piano, though I have fallen out of practice.”

“Oh?”

“We do not have a pianoforte in the home,” Kym replies. 

“Well, in that case, you must visit L’Arlequin at your leisure. We have a most grand pianoforte in the ballroom,” he intones casually. Kieran’s eyes dart up and the Duke looks away just as promptly, suddenly intent to watch himself spear a slice of lamb with great interest in the mechanics of the process. “I would be pleased to accompany your practice.” 

“Oh! Well …” Kym cocks her head, suddenly abashed.

“It would be my pleasure to have you both,” he adds, glancing at Lauren.

“That is most kind of you to offer,” Tristan says. “Lauren, you will accompany her.”

Lauren drops her fork, and the clatter splits the quiet with all of the subtlety of a mallet to a gong. She mutters a quiet apology to the maid who hurries forward to retrieve the fallen utensil and then turns back to William. 

“I…” she begins. “I am, er, quite dreadful with the piano, sir,” she finishes stammeringly. “I assure you that my sister is far more proficient than I.”

“I trust that you shall find the Estate most agreeable, regardless. The library is quite extensive, and we’d be happy to arrange an archery range for your arrival.”

A chalice of wine is placed to Lauren’s left and she grasps for it with the voraciousness of a wild animal, tipping the contents back in one fell swoop. 

“My daughter shall accept your invitation most gratefully,” Tristan says.

When Tristan, Kym, and William lapse into other topics of conversation, Kieran reclines languidly in his chair, turning to Lauren with a bemused grin. “The grounds do have an excellent selection of trees for you to choose from,” he murmurs. 

“How _wonderful_ ,” Lauren replies quietly. “I shall only hope they do not also have hills, should I suffer the great misfortune of encountering a man with such preposterous balance that I might fall.”

“Are you implying that _I_ am the reason you fell? If I recall, you happened to accomplish that quite independently of any intervention on my part.” 

“Ha!” She huffs, leaning in. “You and I have a very different perception of events then, Mr. White.” 

There is something magnetic about the full force of her attention, like scorching sunlight against frozen earth, transformative and overwhelming. His eyes snag on her lips, petal-soft and twisted into a sneer, stained with a wash of merlot. She looks different, he thinks. Softer, somehow, though her biting wit still lingers beneath the veneer like the movement of shadow behind a curtain. 

At length, he meets the snare of her keen observation. “Perhaps we do indeed, my lady.” 

  
  


After dinner, Lauren retires to the garden for a breath of fresh air and finds that Kieran must have had the same idea, for she finds him standing among the rosebushes, watching the horizon bleed into dusk with an expression of quiet pensivity. He appears something of an impressionist painting, posed among the bramble and vine — for she is not so obstinate to deny that Kieran White is not, in an objective stance, quite handsome when he is not vexing her. 

“I believe we got off on the wrong foot,” he says. 

“What foot might that be?” Lauren cocks her head, feigning naivety. “The one where you, with no degree of uncertainty, called me prejudiced?” 

“You give just as good as you get.”

“As much as it pains me to admit so, I do think that you are correct in that assessment.” She draws in a breath. “However-”

“Ah! There is always a conditional with you, Lady Sinclair-” 

“- _However,_ ” she continues, pointedly, “It may be stated, with no insignificance, that _you_ have started most every argument we have engaged in.” 

He laughs, then, surprising her. She glances perplexedly at his face, illuminated with the flame of genuine humor: A boyish, toothy grin, nothing like the flinty smirks or bemused sneers, softens his face pleasantly, smoothing the severity of his features like water against ink. “You are quite bold.” 

“I shall take that as a compliment.”

“I would not expect anything less.” 

They lapse into a quiet which is not nearly as uncomfortable as it ought to be, being that she has decided that she, with no lack of conviction, dislikes him most ardently. “Tell me,” she says, finally. “What is your real purpose for being here?”

“Ah,” he murmurs. 

“I am not so silly as my sister to believe everything which is stated as the truth,” Lauren replies shrewdly. 

He palms at his jaw, regarding her thoughtfully. “You are correct in that our presence at Camelia Estate is not accidental.”

“I knew it,” she breathes, rounding on him with fervor. “What is your design?”

“My design? Hm.” He pauses. “On the contrary, the design is not mine at all.”

“I do not believe-”

“The Duke,” Kieran says. “Is quite taken by your sister, as it turns out.”

Lauren huffs and plants her hands on her hips. “It cannot be. He hardly knows her.”

“Perhaps the flame of _romance_ , as it were,” Kieran replies dryly, as if above the notion of romance itself, “Does not require so much beyond a single glance.” He meets her narrowed stare then, his own expression unreadable and tense. 

She clears her throat, suddenly sweltered under the heat of his inspection. “You will not soon find anyone more trusting or kind as my sister. I would only wish to spare her heart.”

Kieran’s expression darkens, then. He takes a step forward, she a step back. “I wonder, Miss Sinclair,” he begins, slowly, “What would inspire you to say such a thing?”

“I do not know what you mean, sir.” 

He barks a clipped, humorless laugh. “Don’t you?”

“Well! I do not think it such a preposterous thing to say, seeing as neither of you made your intentions clear in coming here in the first place.”

“I see,” he says. “A most wicked crime, to be sure.” 

The imprint of the trellis presses between her shoulder blades as he takes another step closer, his eyes bright with zeal. He is now close enough that the wash of his breath against her face brands her like an iron. 

“But you have not answered my question,” he says. 

“What question might that be, Mr. White?” She whispers, suddenly breathless.

“The question,” he says, “Of William’s character, and the assessment you have so cruelly applied to him. Do you believe his intentions with your sister are ill?”

“You are mistaken. My assessment is not so prejudiced as you seem to believe. I trust no one with the heart of my sister, for the goodness of her heart often blinds her to the truth of people’s character.” 

Kieran lifts his fingertips to the conch of her ear and plucks out a leaf that Lila must have missed, regarding it keenly. “I see.” 

She draws a breath and holds it between her teeth, assessing him as though he is a chess piece on the verge of overtaking her strategy. 

“There you are!” 

William’s voice evaporates the tension promptly as they lurch apart, as though scalded. He appears in the doorway framed by a buttery halo of lamplight, his open face bright and blithely unaware. “The footman has collected the steeds. I think we must be going, lest we overstay our welcome.” 

“Right.” Kieran pulls his hand through his hair, which has the unintended consequence of unraveling his ribbon. He threads it between his fingertips and swallows thickly.

“Thank you for visiting us, Your Grace,” Lauren says, dipping into a curtsy. She turns her attention back to Kieran, who regards her with his brows tented inward, lips pulled down into an expression of puzzlement. 

“Goodnight, Miss Sinclair.”

He dips into a bow and then is gone as swiftly as a passing storm, leaving her to the roses and the unsteady thrum of her battering heartbeat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just in: These two idiots can't get through a conversation without arguing. 
> 
> WHEW, am I having fun with this. I haven't listed a final chapter count since I don't really plan that way, so I've had a lot of fun letting the characters drive this story. While this story is definitely more Lauki-focused, there will definitely be some Kywi action coming soon, because I am the most unabashed simp for Willame Hawkes on the face of this planet. 
> 
> Fun fact: Lucentio (William, here) disguises himself as Bianca's tutor to get closer to her, which is where the piano bit comes from. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter, and the piece in general! Thanks for reading. 
> 
> -Rabbit


	5. An Unexpected Duet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a pianist meets their partner and a girl her match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: Ao3 and I are currently in a fight and the fic isn't updating correctly on mobile. I'd recommend reading the latest chapter on desktop, or turning off the creator skin 😊

She recalls that re-learning something you once knew, long ago, is something like waking from a dream. 

Kym slips her tongue between her teeth, fingertips poised over the keys, and restarts. The tinkling melody lilts like raindrops, a fragile, listless thing that always reminds her of springtime and warmer, halcyon days. She feels a bit like marionette in the grand ballroom, all polished surfaces and reflective light. There is a sense of uncertainty, too, that comes with existing within something so opulent.

“That’s beautiful.”

She turns on the bench to find William regarding her quietly, his gentle gaze aflame with curiosity. “What is it from?” 

“Oh,” she says. “Well, it’s something my mother used to play.” She taps the empty space on the bench, regarding him meaningfully. “She never wrote it down.”

He drops into the spot next to her, close enough that she can pick up his lingering scent. Something sharp and chilled, like cold earth after fresh rain, as though he’s bottled up winter itself. She looks at him, awash in the caress of golden light, and realizes how very at home he looks. Which is fitting, perhaps, being that they are in his home, though his personability has the effect of making her forget his stature. 

“Pardon me for asking, my lady, but I noticed she was absent at dinner.” 

“Ah,” Kym murmurs, fixing her gaze down at her hands. “She passed away when Lauren and I were quite young, Your Grace.”

“William,” he says, gently, warmly. 

She turns back to him, grinning. “William,” she says, and he nearly wants to ask her to say it again, and never stop. 

“I’m very sorry to hear that. She’d be pleased to know that you play her song beautifully.” 

“Ah!” Kym exclaims, tipping her head back. Her face is reanimated with her familiar mirth, absent of the long shadows of wistfulness. “Well, only the first part. I can’t remember the rest, I’m afraid. It’s absolutely vexing!” 

William chuckles at her candor as she begins to replay the chords that she can remember, first confidently, then a bit slower, and then, finally, drifting into a patchwork, incomplete quiet. Kym blows a breath through her cheeks and stares at the keys intently, as though willing the rest of the tune out from the ivory. 

“If I may,” William begins, bringing his own hands to rest beside hers. He plays a hesitant chord once, and it rings out through the yawning belly of the room. He pauses, brows pulled in, and then plays the half-step higher. 

She tips her head, studying him. “What are you doing?”

William hums noncommittally, lost in focus. “Could you play the first part again?”

Kym squares her shoulders and glances her fingertips over the keys, slowly drifting into the chords once more. But this time, he joins where the melody would have wilted into silence, with a tentative, drifting set of chords that join the composition like punctuation to the end of a sentence. She freezes, hands still poised in position.

A blush blooms across the apples of his cheeks. “You didn’t like it?”

“No!” She rushes, shaking her head. “No, it just surprised me. Can you do that again?”

He falls back into melody, and this time she drifts in the entrance chord on top of it, creating a new duet. They improvise together, layering chords like snowfall, falling back and pushing forward in turn in a musical spar. When the tune reaches its natural conclusion, she reaches for her quill and furiously scratches the notes onto a piece of parchment.

“Perfect,” she breathes. “How on earth did you do that?” She turns to him, almost dangerously bright, like a blazing hearth, lips parted in astonishment. 

He chuckles, a little chagrined. “It was nothing, really.” 

“Nothing, my foot!” She pulls a hand through her short hair, windswept and pretty with fervor. There’s something magnetic in her disposition, an effortless, untamed sort of beauty. “And if you continue to deny your talent, I shall continue to reiterate it most ardently, until you see it so!”

He chuckles, and it illuminates his complexion completely, bright white on polished gold. “You’re very strange,” he says, his tone warm with admiration.

“Precisely!” She replies. “Life is quite a bit more fun that way, I think.”

“I admire that about you,” he says quietly. “I cannot enjoy such luxuries.” 

“Whyever not?” 

He huffs, folding his palms sheepishly in his lap. “Well. People expect things of me.”

She tips her head quizzically. “And?”

“And,” his gaze narrows onto her mouth, ever-quirked in the ghost of a grin. “And so I mustn’t disappoint them. My mother…” he trails off, swallowing thickly. 

“Wants her son to be happy, I’d presume,” Kym interjects softly. “I have never had the good fortune of meeting the Princess, though I cannot imagine it otherwise.” 

What Kym knows of Princess Marguerite Hawkes is little, a patchwork collection of partial snapshots and stolen glances. Her public appearances lessened in the recent years as she lapsed further into an illness that has been, for the most part, studiously kept private from the general public. She can recall her face, though — a warm, pleasant smile and a benevolent gaze, clear as glass. A towhead that matches that of her son’s, nearly white-gold, like stardust in direct sunlight. She appeared briefly at William’s coronation ceremony, waifish and gaunt in her perch on the throne, a haunting abstraction of the commanding presence she once possessed. 

“What would make you happy, William? Right now?”

He turns to her, ivory skin brushed with afternoon sunlight, rendered in contrasts. Exhausted with diplomacy, he reaches over the bench and takes her palm in his. “This,” he says. 

And together they sit, the world beyond them a muted lull, as though suspended within a snow globe. 

“You must be Lauren Sinclair.”

Lauren spins to find an exceptionally beautiful woman regarding her with an expression of latent interest. Her bodice matches the strawberry blonde of her hair, twisted into an elegant chignon, her complexion clean and bare save for the natural flush of exertion. Backdropped against the grounds of L’Arlequin Manor, she possesses an inherent regality, a fundamental truth which has the effect of placing everyone around her marginally off-kilter.

“Forgive me, ma’am,” Lauren replies. “It seems that my reputation precedes me.”

“So it does,” she replies. “My name is Bella Davenport. Will you join me on a walk?”

Before Lauren has the chance to accept her proposal, Bella pivots with the practiced grace of a ballerina, already drifting back towards the lake. 

Lauren has spent much of the morning exploring the grounds and still feels as though she’s hardly made a dent. L’Arlequin Manor is an exceptional sight, manicured splendor bordered on either side by wild, scrubby landscape, rolling hills that rise and fall like breath against the horizon. A towering structure of stone, a milky white, as though carved from a block of salt, or a mountain’s face. A wide lake worries a crater in the center of the grounds, bisected down its middle by a wooden footbridge. Beyond it lay the magnificent gardens and the sputtering marble fountain, flanked on all sides by a clockwork pattern of trimmed hedge bushes.

In spite of its grandeur, it somehow appears entirely at home amongst the terrain, possessing a quiet, ethereal sort of beauty that affords it the effect of having been born out of a vision. It is bold, but not ostentatious, beautiful, but not blindingly so. 

“Davenport,” Lauren says. “That name-”

“Ah, so you’re not the only one preceded by your reputation,” Bella replies coyly. “Yes, my father is Dominic Davenport. I am the Duke’s cousin.”

Dominic Davenport, one of the more unscrupulous of the robber barons that rule the railroads of Ardhalis with an iron grip. With a maw like a shark’s and an insatiable appetite for entrepreneurship, he is never far from the noble circles, rubbing elbows and splitting cigars with anyone who is anyone in the upper crust. Lauren became acquainted with him at a gala some three summers ago and disliked him immediately and implicitly. 

“Father is in town on business and the Princess consort was gracious enough to host. This area of Ardhalis is so …” she flicks an elegant, bony wrist in the direction of the countryside. “ _Quaint_ , is it not?”

Lauren hums contemplatively. “I should think so, ma’am. I find that the fresh air is good for the spirit.” 

“Indeed,” Bella replies gamely, lips twisted into a grimace. “My cousin is very fond of your sister.”

“So it seems,” Lauren says shrewdly. 

“And you?” Bella asks.

“Well, yes, I happen to be quite fond of her as well.”

Bella smiles flintily. “Ah, I’ve heard a bit about your wit, Miss Sinclair. I meant to inquire after your opinion of the Duke.” 

Lauren pauses, her narrowed gaze fixed on the horizon. “He has been very kind to my sister and I.” 

“You are rather diplomatic, Miss Sinclair.”

“Well! That’s a relief. I have been told that I offer my opinions far too freely.”

Bella stops next to a dahlia bush and sweeps to pluck a flower from the hedge, twisting the powdery petals between her fingertips with detached interest. “Is that so? In that case, I expect that you and I shall get along splendidly. Decorum is rather boring, is it not?”

“I rather think it is,” Lauren murmurs. 

They cross the length of the footbridge in pensive quiet. Bella rounds the corner of the garden, her amber stare ablaze with a pointed sort of knowingness, narrowed on the distant foothills.

“And what of his friend? Have you made his acquaintance?” 

Lauren follows her gaze to the dark figure on the horizon, a mere suggestion of a person at the great distance that separates them. Still, she can place the self-assured curve of his posture anywhere, the lilt in his gait as he paces the grounds alone, a book tucked under his arm. 

“Yes, I have had the … pleasure of meeting Mr. White before, ma’am,” she murmurs at length. 

“Ha!” Bella tips her chin back. “You are among friends here, Miss Sinclair.” She spins to face Lauren, her expression illuminated with mirth. “You may be candid with me.”

She recalls their conversation in the garden a week prior, both mussed and electrified as they traded poisoned barbs. Her memory, inexplicably, snags on the shape of his mouth, folded into a scowl as he accused her of her own impropriety. The way he looked at her as though she was a puzzle he wished desperately to solve.

“I do not believe he has a favorable impression of me.”

“I’ve always thought it odd,” Bella murmurs. “His being _penniless_ , and all.” She spits the word with vitriolic inflection, lips curled into a cruel smirk. “I have half a mind to think his intentions most curious indeed.” 

Lauren turns to her, brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“We have rules for a reason.” Her gloved fingertips trail over the hedge bushes as she walks, like a stone glancing over the surface of a pond. “It isn’t proper for the rats to play with the cats, and vice versa.”

“I must disagree, my lady,” Lauren replies. “I should think that there is very little to separate the rats from the cats.” She glances at Bella, her golden gaze hardened with distaste. “I have _half a mind_ to think that I have met some cats who are disposed to act more like rats, in fact.”

Bella meets Lauren’s imperturbable stare head on, tentative respect flickering in her expression like candlelight. They draw to a stop at the entrance of the Manor, having made a full revolution around the length of the pond.

“You are very bold.”

“I have been told as much.” 

Bella hums. “It is expected that the Duke will host a ball within the next fortnight. I shall hope very much to see you there,” she pronounces, one brow cocked challengingly. 

“If he will have us, I shall hope so, too,” Lauren replies woodenly, all the while rather certain that she would like nothing less. 

They both dip into mirrored curtsies. Lauren watches the sweep of her profile as she turns away and slips through the ornate doorway of L’Arlequin Manor, her elegant form somehow so very fitting amongst the polished copper and vine and stone.

Entranced by the strange interaction, Lauren doesn’t realize she hasn’t moved until she hears the pace of footsteps crunching against the dirt path behind her, and then, inevitably, the lazy intonation she’s come to dread: “Are you planning on going inside, or are you content to stare at the door?”

Lauren spins to find Kieran regarding her curiously, a familiar smirk playing at the edges of his lips. He is windswept and brushed with the chill of late autumn, all gleaming contrasts. 

“On the contrary,” she replies, “I am out for a walk.”

“I hadn’t realized that walking was so stationary.” 

“Well, I took a break.”

“I see.”

A silence swells between them. She dips into a curtsy and spins on her heel, intending to conclude the conversation. 

“I must wonder,” he calls, and Lauren sighs as he jogs to catch up to her, “If you’ve been intending to avoid me, my lady.” 

She turns, bristling. “Why on earth would I avoid you?” 

“Our last conversation was rather contentious.” 

“Hardly.”

“No?”

“No,” she bites back, jutting her chin in defiance. “I was simply explaining your own prejudices to you, cruely applied as they were.” 

“And what about yours?” Kieran asks. “It seems we will be seeing each other more often-”

“Not if I can help it-”

“-Which would imply that it would benefit us both to attempt …” he pauses. “Cordiality with one another.” 

“Cordiality,” Lauren deadpans. She pauses, drawing her lower lip between her teeth. “In any case, it doesn’t matter.”

He draws to a stop beside her. “And why not?”

“We won’t be seeing each other for much longer. My father forbids my sister to be courted by anyone until I am, and I am quite warmed to the idea of my fate as an old maid.” Lauren blinks up at his expression, his lips parted in incredulity, eyes narrowed on her face. “What?” She snaps.

Slowly, like running water, a smirk dawns across his features. “Is that so?”

“ _Tch_ ,” she sneers. “I have been told my disposition makes me incompatible to the eligible bachelor. If being a married woman means that I must cease to speak freely, I shall avoid the notion entirely.” 

“Or, more likely,” he muses, “You don’t think anyone is good enough.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Exactly what I said,” Kieran replies, his grin widening as he appraises her sharp countenance, her molten gaze churning with ire. “You think that you are the smartest person in any given room, which is likely true, though it colors your perception of others.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lauren replies, huffing in a humorless laugh. “You speak very freely indeed, sir.” 

“That may be so,” Kieran concedes. “It does not render my assessments untrue.”

“You’d do well to keep your assessments to yourself, then,” she grits. 

This time, when she turns on her heel, he does not follow, electing instead to watch after her with a placid expression, arms crossed over his chest. Despite the fact that she’s gotten the last word, she can’t help but feel that a verbal spar with Kieran White seldom ends in a definitive victory.

“Lord Sinclair, a letter has arrived for you.” 

Tristan glances up from his parchment, the tip of his quill still posed in place. “Thank you, Lila. Please leave it on the desk.” 

She thumbs the edge of the wax seal, lingering passively in the precipice of Tristan’s study. “It is from the L’Arlequin Estate, my lord.” 

“Is it?” Tristan murmurs, placing the paper aside. “In that case, I shall make haste,” he adds, grinning warmly. 

He peels back the lip of the envelope and spends a long moment inspecting the contents, his expression betraying nothing as he reads. Lila pulls at a thread in her hem, vacillating between curiosity and good decorum, and then, at long last, his gaze flicks up from the parchment to meet hers. 

“Lila, dear,” he asks, “Would you please fetch my daughters?”

“Of course, my lord.”

After a short length of searching, she finds them in the library, sprawled languidly in their riding clothes as they read. Lila raps lightly against the edge of the door frame. 

“Hello, Lila!” Kym says, sliding her thumb between the pages of her novel. 

“Hello, my ladies.” She dips into a curtsy. “Lord Sinclair has requested your presence in his study.” 

Lauren groans, tossing her auburn head back against the arm of her chair. “Kym, did you let the chickens loose again?”

“Why should you assume that I did something wrong?” Kym snaps, tossing her palms up in exasperation. “All you know is that Papa has asked us to meet him.”

"Because- ”

“On the contrary,” Lila interjects softly, “Lord Sinclair has received a letter from L’Arlequin.” 

Their heads snap around to face her in identical expressions of surprise. 

“He _what_?” Lauren breathes, turning to Kym. “What could it mean?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Kym replies, tapping her chin with her index finger. They follow Lila into the study, rendered uncharacteristically quiet with contemplation as they take a seat in the armchairs opposite his desk. 

“Hello, ladies,” he murmurs, tipping his head. His eyes remain fixed to the letter in his hands.

“Hello, Papa,” they greet in unison. A long moment ticks by, punctuated by the burnished grandfather clock in the corner of the room. Lauren and Kym exchange a questioning glance.

“What is this about, Papa?” Kym asks, ever-impatient. 

“I’ve received a letter from the Duke,” Tristan begins, folding his spectacles. He leans back in his chair, appraising his daughters keenly. “It is an invitation to a ball.”

“A ball!” Kym gaps. “Papa, can we go?” 

“ _We_?” Lauren asks, kneading the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb. “I doubt the Duke has requested my presence.”

“On the contrary,” Tristan says, “The invitation extends to the both of you. The ball is to occur in a week’s time.”

Kym turns to Lauren and tips her raven head, lips puckered into a pout. 

“No,” Lauren says. 

Tristan thrums his fingertips against the edge of his desk. “You girls know my rule. Kym, you are not to go unless Lauren accompanies you.” 

“Lauren, you must go. There will be dancing! And I’m sure they will have watermelon punch,” she breathes, her expression glassy and unseeing. “And-

“And an overcrowded ball room and insufferable men who wish to opine endlessly about my pensive gaze. ”

“I shall do your chores for an entire month.”

Lauren hums. “Not enough to tempt me.” 

“I shall be the perfect picture of a good sister, and do nothing at all to vex you.” 

“Ha!” Lauren says. 

“This is about that Mr. White, isn’t it?” Kym grins, her gaze bright and pointed, like sharpened steel.

“Mr. White?” Tristan asks, running a hand along his jaw in contemplation. “Well, I rather thought he was a respectable gentleman.” 

“Yes, he is very respectable indeed,” Lauren replies dryly, lips twisted into a scowl. 

“Lauren utterly hates the man, Papa,” Kym says, her countenance positively sparkling with mirth. 

“I do not _hate_ him,” Lauren replies, flicking her palm noncommittally. “To hate him would be to accept that I am inclined to think strongly about him at all, regardless of the nature of my sentiments.”

“If that is so,” Tristan muses, one brow cocked into his hairline, “Then it shall be no trouble at all for you to attend this ball. Unless there is another reason for your reluctance, my dear.” 

Lauren sighs, sinking back into her chair. “I suppose not,” she grumbles. The two turn to her, appraising her in pointed silence.

“Fine. Write to L’Arlequin and tell them that we will attend this insipid ball. But-”

“-Aye!” Kym exclaims, clasping her palms together. 

“-But know that I will not enjoy it, and am only doing so at the behest of my silly sister’s happiness,” Lauren adds, and spins out of the room in a flounce of cotton skirts.

“If you insist,” Tristan calls after her bemusedly, spinning his quill between his fingertips, “Then it will be so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a tha *italian chef hands* Kywi softness of it all 🥝🥝🥝
> 
> I know I say this after every chapter, but this has been so fun for me. I want to take a moment to recognize how wonderful you all have been. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the unbelievably kind and supportive comments I've received, not only on this story, but on all of my published works. This fic community is so wonderfully special, and I cannot thank you enough for indulging this bunny rabbit's stories 🐇💖 Your kudos, comments, and support are everything to me.


	6. An Unspoken Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a lie leads to a truth.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“On the contrary,” Kieran says, twisting the croquet mallet between his palms, “I’ve never been more serious.” He winds up and knocks the ball to the right of the wicket, wincing as it drifts off-center. “I will never understand why you nobles enjoy this bloody sport.” 

“ _We nobles_ ,” William replies, squaring his shoulders as he eyes the course, “Find it rather fun.” He swings his mallet, sailing the ball in a perfect arc through the wicket, much to Kieran’s chagrin. “Tell me again what she told you,” he says, running a hand over his curls. 

Kieran presses the tip of his tongue into his cheek, assessing his chances of recovering his dismally low score. “She’s not permitted to court until the sister does,” he says. “Apparently, at the behest of Lord Sinclair.” 

“What are we going to do?”

“ _We?_ ” He mutters a bated curse as his ball rolls further out-of-bounds, rather certain that he is the least apt croquet player ever to pick up a mallet. 

“You’ve got to help me.”

“Surely not.”

William presses his palm to his chest in exaggerated misery. Cheeks wind-bitten and hair mussed in the autumn chill, he appears a more youthful version of himself, abstracted from all of his princely accoutrements. “Does our decade-long friendship mean nothing to you?”

“Surely it does,” Kieran hums affirmatively, “However, I have no stake in your pernicious schemes, as our friendship means as much to me as my sanity.”

The Duke groans emphatically, then falls quiet with contemplation. His blue gaze narrows on the skyline, as though spectating an unseen display. “Lauren Sinclair…” he begins slowly.

The name ignites a visceral reaction in Kieran, a churn in his gut like a shifting tide. Hackles raised, he turns to William, curiosity piqued despite his best intentions. 

“...Rather handsome is she not? Her coloring, most unique.”

“What’s your game?” Kieran asks sagely.

“I haven’t a game at all,” William replies, head tipped innocently. “I am simply stating a fact.”

“A statement which is not without purpose,” Kieran says, his gaze narrowing. 

William hums, twirling his mallet dexterously. “All I’ve stated is that she’s a handsome girl, and you’ve had a rather animated reaction-”

“You’re going to ask me to court her,” Kieran deadpans, “So that you may court Kym.” 

William nudges the dewy earth with the toe of his shoe. In the early morning, the grounds of L’Arlequin are languorous and pensive, all rolling fog and gentle, filtered light. He exhales, cool vapor curling around his lips and into the copper treeline. “I was going to do nothing of the sort-”

“Wonderful-,” Kieran murmurs dryly.

“-However, being that you are my closest friend, I would ask, quite humbly, that you might save her a dance at the ball,” he finishes in a rush, turning back to Kieran in hopeful, breathless fervor. 

Kieran sighs, leaning his weight against his mallet. Her eyes, unbidden, surface in his memory: Pin-sharp and narrowed squarely onto him, churning with golden wildfire. “Lauren Sinclair would sooner have my head than deign to dance with me,” he replies, scowling.

William fixes him with a bemused look, gaze hooded, lips pulled into a wisp of a grin. 

“Out with it,” Kieran snaps. 

“It’s funny, watching the two of you converse,” he says. “One might suggest that you even enjoy it. It isn’t often that you find someone quick enough to keep up with your tongue.” 

“I am not so obtuse as to deny that her wit can be…” he frowns. “Entertaining, in conversation.”

“So you admit, then, that you find her intriguing?”

“I…” Kieran groans, suddenly plagued with a headache. “Was psychological warfare something you learned in school, or does it come to you naturally?” 

“It’s a simple question.”

He runs his hand over his hair, which has fallen loose from his ribbon and now curls in dark tendrils over his forehead. “I am intrigued by Lauren Sinclair as much as you can be by a person who, with no degree of uncertainty, wants you dead.” 

“Well, then,” William replies. “I fear that your options are to ask her to dance, or risk losing my friendship, perhaps forever.”

“Ha!” Kieran huffs. “There’s small choice in rotten apples, is there not?” 

Together they gather the croquet balls and wickets and begin the walk back over the footbridge, content in the quiet splendor of the autumn morning. 

“Say that I ask her to dance,” Kieran muses, shouldering his way into the small woodshed at the edge of the grounds. He hangs the mallet up onto the hook in the wall and the leans against the shelf inlay, assessing William with a pensive expression. “What’s in it for you?”

William returns his own equipment and follows Kieran back outside, a small frown worrying at the edges of his austere profile. “You always assume the worst of me.”

“That is not the case,” Kieran replies. “You are, however, the cleverest person I know, and therefore I must always be alert.”

William’s chest warms at the compliment as they reach the doors of L’Arlequin Manor. At this hour, the palace is all prismic light and reflective surfaces, as though you’re standing in the center of a block of ice. “So you will do it, then?” He asks, hopeful. 

Kieran sighs. “If I die at this ball, it was at Lauren Sinclair’s hand,” he replies. “I leave the rest up to you.”

William beams, clapping his shoulder jovially. “I knew you’d come around,” he replies cheekily.

A maid greets them at the foyer, wrinkling her nose at their muddied hems. “Good morning, Your Grace, Mr. White,” she says, dipping into a curtsy. “Lady Davenport is enjoying breakfast in the dining room, if you’d care to join her.” 

William glances at Kieran, whose tight expression betrays nothing. “That would be great. Thank you, Jane,” he replies. 

The jarring effect of going from insatiable hunger to excessive wealth will never truly leave Kieran. Each time he looks upon the teeming, lavish displays of buttery pastries, of glazed meats and fresh vegetables and tiered finger sandwiches, he feels that familiar pang of discordance anew, as though it is the first time. They enter the dining hall and bow in unison at the head of the table, still mussed and smelling of earth from their outdoor excursion.

Belladonna Davenport looks every bit the picture of nobility she was born and bred into, a spoon poised delicately between her fingertips, the jewels at her breastbone tossing the morning light in scattered rays. She smells sickly sweet, an oppressive, cloying sort of fragrance that permeates the air. 

Bella looks upon the two of them as though spectating a mildly amusing display. “Good morning,” she says, her sharp gaze snagging on their dirtied clothes. 

“Good morning, cousin,” William replies, dropping into the seat opposite of her. He reaches for a dish of creamer and stirs it into his tea, his gaze ping-ponging fitfully between the two. Kieran nods in greeting, his own gaze fixed squarely ahead, at the grounds beyond the bay window. 

“I had the most distinct pleasure of meeting the Sinclair sisters yesterday,” she says, her tone lilting. “Remind me, William,” she places her spoon down and leans forward. “How did you happen upon them?” 

_Happen upon them,_ as though the women are stray dogs, or untamed ruffians. The inflection is so transparently condescending that Kieran huffs a laugh under his breath, militantly avoiding her narrowed inspection. 

“We met them at the market some three weeks ago. They do not have a piano in their home,” William says, spreading butter onto a piece of toast. “Kym Sinclair has an interest in playing, so I offered ours for her use.” 

“They do not?” Bella asks, her delicate mouth folding into a sneer. “That is rather odd.” 

“Is it?” Kieran asks, his tone hardened. 

“It is important that young women of society stay abreast of current fashions,” Bella replies. “I’ve heard that Lord Sinclair makes three thousand pounds a year, which is more than enough to afford one.” 

“Whatever their reason, I’ve found their company exceedingly pleasant,” William replies, his tone weighty with authority. His blue gaze narrows onto his cousin challengingly. It isn’t often that the Duke uses his stature to his advantage, but the rare instances in which he does have the near-instantaneous effect of quieting the person on the receiving end. 

“How charming,” Bella replies flatly. 

“Where is your father?” William asks. 

“Out riding,” she says, flicking her palm noncommittal towards the window. “The Sinclairs will be present at the ball, then?” She asks, her expression bright with curiosity. 

“I’ve just received word from Lord Sinclair that it will be so,” William replies, humming affirmatively. 

Bella glances at Kieran, now. “And you, Mr. White? Will you be in attendance?”

“I can’t imagine why not,” Kieran replies coyly, his gaze finding Bella’s with a slow turn of his head. They regard each other with unabashed contempt. “If I am wanted,” he adds woodenly. 

“Of course you’re wanted,” William interjects, his tone clipped. “How many times-”

“Forgive me, _Your Grace_ ,” Kieran says, pushing his chair away from the table. “It would be improper of me to assume that I am to attend such an affair, given by humble birth,” he says, his tone venomous. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just remembered a pressing matter which I must attend to.”

“Kieran-” William starts, placing his napkin into his plate.

But he is already gone, through the doorway and into the hallway, suddenly feeling so very small in a palace that is not his home. 

  
  
  


Lila steps into the dining room during breakfast to inform the Sinclairs that they are to receive a visitor. 

This is not uncommon, Lauren thinks, being that Tristan Sinclair is highly respected and connected within Ardhalis’ social circles, and thus prone to somewhat frequent visitations. But all the same, she is met with a feeling of trepidation that does not abate when she learns just who that visitor turns out to be. 

When he turns the corner, Lauren’s spine is suddenly pulled straight, as though struck. 

Two coal-dark eyes flit boredly around the room, set within a face cut from stone. Dominic Davenport’s countenance is harsh and unforgiving, hard-packed earth frosted by winter’s chill. His blonde hair is combed back neatly, lips twisted into a little quirk that Lauren has come to recognize in his daughter. Buttoned and coiffed in the popular styles of silk and velvet, with a green silk puff tie knotted at his throat. 

“Davenport,” Tristan exclaims warmly, standing to dip into a cordial bow. Lauren and Kym follow suit, dipping into stiff curtsies, exchanging a loaded glance with one another. 

Dominic tips the lip of his top hat in greeting. “Please,” he says, his voice low and cool, like rolling mist, “Don’t stop on my account. I’m in the area and thought I’d pay a visit.” 

“Please, join us,” Tristan says, gesturing to the open seat across from Lauren. Dominic wordlessly hands his hat to Lila in a gesture so familiarly snobbish among nobles that Lauren forces herself to swallow back a biting remark with her tea.

“How is your sister?” Tristan asks, his expression knotted with solemnity. 

A time-muddied image of the Princess consort’s face flits through Lauren’s memory, an imprint of a waifish figure and a wan, mirthless grin. 

Dominic hums, dropping into the seat. “She is as expected,” he replies vaguely, his expression unreadable. 

“I am sorry to hear that,” Tristan replies. “With recent medical advancements, I’m sure that she will be in great health in short time.” 

Dominic nods. “I am sure,” he agrees.

“I had the fortune of meeting your daughter yesterday, sir,” Kym says, though her tone is more cautious than normal. She stirs her spoon in her tea in a slow, hypnotic pattern. “She is very…” Kym pulls her lip between her teeth, her gaze darting to Lauren. 

“Accomplished,” Lauren supplies. 

“Indeed. Bella is a most accomplished young lady of society,” Dominic replies. “I suspect she will be a wonderful influence on your daughters, Tristan.”

Lauren’s eyes narrow at the barbed comment. “We are to see you at the ball, then?” She asks, twisting her fork between her fingers. 

Dominic fixes his cold gaze onto Lauren, deceptively calm, like the eye of a storm. “Of course,” he replies smoothly. He turns to Tristan. “How are you acquainted with the Duke?” 

“The Duke has been kind enough to host us at L’Arlequin,” Kym says. 

“Very kind indeed,” Dominic replies slowly. 

“And how has Allendale Estate been treating you?”

Dominic is something of a statistical anomaly, having created his own wealth rather than being entrusted to it generationally. His entrepreneurial aptitude afforded him a meteoric rise in the railroad industry, and Marguerite’s fortuitous marriage into the royal family, by the same token, cemented his good fortune. Following the late Prince’s passing, the Davenports moved into the previously unoccupied Allendale Estate, far east of Camelia. 

“Very well, my Lord. Should you find yourself in the area, we would be pleased to host you and your daughters.” 

“That would be very pleasant, sir,” Tristan replies, and Lauren chews the inside of her lip as she spears a piece of ham with more force than strictly warranted.

“It is a beautiful Estate, to be sure,” he continues, gesturing to a maid with a petulant flick of his fingers to indicate that he would like a refill of tea. Kym brings her palm to the side of her face to mask her emphatic eye roll. “I do wish, of course, that our ownership of the property came under better circumstances.”

“Prince Philip’s passing,” Tristan murmurs, head tipped. 

“Indeed,” Dominic replies. “The late Prince was most generous to entrust the Allendale property to us.” 

Lauren’s head snaps up, then, meeting Dominic’s cold stare with her own narrowed one. She can sense Kym watching her quizzically in her periphery, the tip of her butter knife still poised in place over her plate. For a moment, it appears as though no one moves, as though posed for a painting.

“That must have been very difficult for you,” Lauren says slowly, placing her fork down. She leans forward, her auburn head tipped forward intently. “I’m sure the Estate is shadowed with memories of him.” 

“Naturally,” Dominic replies. 

“I’m sure that you will make many more happy memories, sir,” Kym says, her sharpened stare slowly moving from Lauren to Dominic. 

“Of course,” Dominic says. Something stirs in Lauren’s gut with a low hum, a steady cadence like a drumbeat. She is aware, dully, of life outside of her moving in transient, ephemeral shapes, though, in this moment, nothing has gained her focus so intently as Dominic Davenport’s whip-sharp countenance, his intonation like hollowed bone. “It is, after all, what Philip would want.” 

Tristan steers the conversation to lighter topics, namely the upcoming ball and Davenport’s various business endeavors. Lauren tunes their idle chatter out, her gaze fixed unseeingly on the fireplace. When Kym nudges her ankle under the table, Lauren turns to her, her expression vacant.

“What is it?” Kym whispers, her dark head tipped forward.

Lauren shakes her head, glancing meaningfully at their father, then back to her. “Later,” she murmurs, low enough that only her sister can hear. 

After breakfast, Tristan suggests that the two men continue their conversation in his study, a proposition which makes Lauren breathlessly grateful. She wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to endure sharing a room with such a wretched man as Dominic Davenport. After they leave the dining room, the Sinclair sisters lapse into silence, Kym watching Lauren’s profile pointedly. 

“Out with it, then,” Kym urges, the toe of her shoe tapping against the floor impatiently. “What on earth caused such a reaction in you?”

Lauren taps her chin with her finger, still lost in thought. “Of course,” Lauren murmurs vacantly. “My own certitude led me to believe things which were wrong.”

“For heaven’s sake, sister,” Kym groans, tossing her head back. “Sometimes, I truly feel as though I’m talking to a wall.”

“Let’s go into town,” Lauren suggests suddenly, springing to her feet. She grabs Kym’s palm and wrenches her up, towing Kym behind her as she paces through the halls, her lips still moving in an unintelligible monologue. “I need a new ribbon for the ball.”

“Don’t think that this will distract me,” Kym grumbles. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Lauren says, grinning wryly. “I shall tell you on the way.” 

Once outside, Lauren draws in a breath, tipping her face towards the cloudless sky. The day is pleasantly chilly, the kind of weather which Lauren finds best for contemplation. They amble together down the road, the silence punctuated with their footsteps, the shift of their skirts over the grounds. 

“If you do not tell me what you are thinking about, I shall faint in anticipation, and then you will have to carry me back to Camelia,” Kym says. 

“Ha!” Lauren replies. “I would sooner leave you on the road, to the animals and highwaymen.” Her expression grows thoughtful, then, lips flattened into a line. “That Dominic Davenport…” she says. 

“I dislike that man,” Kym hums. “He is so…” Her eyes narrow, searching for the end to her sentence. “Cold.”

“Not unlike Bella Davenport, then,” Lauren murmurs. “Over the course of breakfast, he revealed something to me.”

“Something he said?”

“Something he _didn’t_ say.”

Kym groans. “Are you to speak in riddles for the rest of the morning, then?”

Lauren turns to her sister, her gaze bright with the particular amusement born from a newfound game. There is a fact that relatively few people know about Lauren Sinclair. From the time that she was a child, she was bestowed a rather unique gift, an aptitude for detecting even the subtlest of lies. Lies large and small, malicious and benign, lurking in the minute pauses, the inhalations of breath, the widened pupil. 

“It has always been assumed,” Lauren begins, “That the late Prince entrusted the Allendale property to the Davenports. That they inherited it in the will.” 

“Of course,” Kym replies, her browns drawn in.

“I believe,” Lauren murmurs, “That things just became infinitely more interesting.” 

For it is because of her particular gift that, when Dominic Davenport stated that Prince Philip had entrusted the Allendale Estate to him, Lauren Sinclair knew that he was lying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! That's the title of the thing!
> 
> More of an expository chapter to set up some plot lines to come 😉 Hortensio actually says the “Small choice…” line in the original text, buuuut we’re bending the rules here, my friends. I am happy to report that the next update will include the ball aaaand … Lune action? 😮🌙
> 
> I love you, my dear readers and wonderful friends. Thank you for joining me on this ride! I hope you're having fun!
> 
> -Rabbit


End file.
